I Want You To Want Me. Kathy Love
had introduced them. But the electricity from the brief contact had been knee-weakening and more intense than anything she’d ever experienced. Well, at least for her. She had no idea if Vittorio had felt the same axis-tipping chemistry.
She pushed open her door and entered her apartment, letting him follow. She didn’t look back as she headed to the small kitchen and grabbed a roll of paper towels.
“Here you go,” she said, managing a small smile, despite her body’s current reaction to him. Her heart still pounded. She felt breathless.
He snatched the paper towels from her grasp, before she could even hold them out to him. He removed his hand from his forehead to pull one of the paper squares off the roll.
Erika gasped as she saw the gash on his temple, and realized he was bleeding, a lot, just above his left brow—the blood a deep red, vivid and horrible looking.
“My God, that looks terrible.” She moved closer to inspect the wound. She gently pressed her fingers to his cheek, rising up on her tiptoes to see the cut better. “You should go to the doctor. I’ll take you.”
“It’s fine,” he muttered, jerking back from her and pressing the wadded-up towel to the cut.
“It doesn’t look fine,” she told him, sinking back on her heels and dropping the hand that she’d pressed to his cool cheek. A wave of rejection filled her. Ridiculous given that he was hurt. And by her, no less. He certainly had every right to be distrustful of her, and irritated too. “That looks like it needs stitches.”
“It’s fine. A bandage will take care of it.”
“I have a Band-Aid in the bathroom. I think. And maybe some hydrogen peroxide.” She turned to go search, but his deep voice stopped her.
“I’m fine.” He sounded almost irritated now.
She ignored it. “It’s no bother.” She headed down a hallway which led to her bedroom and the bath.
Vittorio watched Erika disappear down the hallway. He gritted his teeth at the fact that even for just the briefest moment, his eyes had dropped down to look at the fit of the pastel plaid pajama bottoms she wore against her rounded derriere.
He wasn’t here to be checking out Maggie’s friend’s rear end. He’d do well to remember that.
Lifting the paper towel from his wound, he inspected it to see if the bleeding had lessened. Damn, head wounds bled a lot—even for vampires. But the bleeding was already stopping. And he certainly didn’t need a Band-Aid. The cut would be healed by tomorrow night. Something vampires didn’t share with humans.
He jammed the towel back to the wound, irritated with himself. Of course, being a vampire, he shouldn’t have even been hit. His reflexes were usually impeccable. Hell, he could literally dodge a bullet. Yet he’d gotten beamed in the head with a frantically flung cell phone.
But the truth was he’d been stunned to see Erika dashing through the darkness. Stunned and unreasonably thrilled.
He’d not allowed himself to think about Maggie’s friend since meeting her at the small jazz bar and restaurant where Ren had introduced them months earlier.
Oh, she’d popped into his mind at random and inappropriate times, but he’d shoved all images of her aside. He had no room in his life for her.
He’d returned to New Orleans with only one task in mind, and Erika with her pretty smile and intelligent blue eyes and totally perfect rear end….
He groaned. Do not let your thoughts head in that direction. Don’t. He’d be a fool to go there—even in fantasy.
“I have one Band-Aid,” Erika said, materializing out of the dark hallway. “And I couldn’t find any hydrogen peroxide. But I do have antibiotic ointment.”
Vittorio, despite his little mental pep talk, drank in the sight of her. Her dark, almost black hair was piled onto her head in an untidy knot, escaped tendrils looking like swirls of ink against the pale skin of her long neck.
She walked straight up to him, her fingers capturing his, easing the paper towel away from the cut. Again she rose up on her tiptoes, and as before the position brought her close to him, her breasts almost brushing his chest.
He fought back a groan.
Her heat and her energy did touch him, spreading over his body as if her long limbs were curled around him. For the briefest moment, he absorbed it, letting himself take that energy into himself.
Her fingers stilled against his, and she made a small noise in the back of her throat. Not a noise of distress, but one of pleasure.
Abruptly he stepped back, jerking his hand from her.
What was he doing? He didn’t take a person’s energy. Not like that. Not just a single person’s. Damn, he had to create some space between them. Real space, not just the fluctuating expanse of physical distance.
“Erika,” he said, then added, “It is Erika, right?”
Erika’s face changed, a small show of disappointment, the slight pulling down of her beautifully shaped lips.
“Yes,” she murmured, glancing down at the towel that had slipped from his hands to hers when he’d pulled away.
“I appreciate your offer to help,” he said, keeping his voice cool. Pretending he wasn’t aware of everything about her.
“It’s the least I could do. I did hit you.”
“True,” he said, amazed at how condescending he could make the one word sound. But he did come from royalty—even if that was long, long ago and even if his father was only the fifth son of an earl. “Which is why I think you have done more than enough for me tonight.”
Instead of looking cowed, which was what he’d expected from her, she frowned at his dismissive tone.
“Did Ren know you were coming?”
Vittorio raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused by her coolly asked question. “No, but I am his brother. I hardly think I need a formal invitation.”
“True,” Erika nodded. “But if you had told him, he probably would have told me. And thus, I wouldn’t have been scared out of my wits, and I wouldn’t have pitched my cell phone at your head.”
“You could have asked before you pitched.”
Erika laughed at that, the sound derisive, but it still managed to stroke over his skin. A shiver steeped with longing threatened him, but he suppressed it.
Do not react. He’d spent years practicing his lack of reaction. But despite his warning, his muscles tightened as he struggled with his body’s response to her laugh, her voice, her lovely eyes. Her lips.
“Spoken like a true man.”
Until she continued, he was at a loss as to what she was referring to. Although she was right, other parts, aside from his mouth apparently, were indeed acting like a true man.
“If I had taken the time to inquire who you were, lurking in the shadows, and you had intended me harm, you would have had the time to do so. The cell phone reaction still seems far more sensible to me—despite your injury. Of which I am sorry.” She no longer sounded sorry, however. She sounded annoyed.
Good, Vittorio told himself. The sooner she realized how unlikeable he was, the sooner she would leave him alone to do what he needed to do here in New Orleans.
Then he realized she was staring at him as if she expected a response.
“Well, most people would have stayed inside their house and used the cell to call for help—rather than using it as a projectile.”
Her soft pink lips firmed into a straight line. “Right.” She shoved the Band-Aid and the tube of ointment at him.
“I’m sorry,” she